


Tumblr Ficlets: Kinks #2

by cranberryloops (orphan_account)



Series: Tumblr Fics, Ficlets and Drabbles [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BDSM, M/M, Slapping, corsets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-29
Updated: 2013-03-29
Packaged: 2017-12-06 20:05:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/739587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/cranberryloops
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: Sherlock slapping John. Or John in a corset, because people always stick those on Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tumblr Ficlets: Kinks #2

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Corsets and Dress Trousers](https://archiveofourown.org/works/739580) by [PrettyArbitrary](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrettyArbitrary/pseuds/PrettyArbitrary). 



> Originally written on Nov. 29th, 2012. Prompt by PrettyArbitrary.
> 
> Well, it’s much less porny than desired. Two consenting adults, despite what the prompt says.

So, this time we have: John in a corset, some slapping. And well, if it’s not obvious then be aware: BDSM themes ahead. Not very porny, again - I think I might be broken. 

John is always beautiful, a lethal strength hidden by a light joke and a ten year old jumper. He’s even more appealing naked, muscled in a way that says capable instead of indulgent, he’s proud and comfortable in his skin, unashamed. And Sherlock adores the riddles of John’s body, the questions and answers hidden in a map made of skin and scars. He can spend hours, he has on several occasions, studying John, gathering information and drawing new, exciting patterns into the surface of his dearest possession, of the only thing he truly loves.

But looking at him now, standing in front of Sherlock as they both look into the mirror, he feels that like this John is even more magnificent.

The dark grey trousers are tailored to John’s figure, and while Sherlock has not yet managed to convince John to wear them outside of the bedroom, the way they hug John’s ass makes them worth every single penny they cost. The soft line of fabric curves up where ass becomes lower back at the exact height of Sherlock’s cock, as if inviting him to press himself against John cleft. The trousers make him look leaner, taller, but they’re nothing without the dark satin corset hugging John’s waist.

The corset is clean, the only details on it is the intricate boning structure of the garment, and the lacing in the back. Its beauty lies within its simplicity, in the hold it has on John. In it, John stands taller, straighter, like the soldier he is. Sherlock hasn’t laces it too tight, he appreciates too much the smooth line of John’s back turning almost seamlessly into shiny black cloth to see the corset bite into it. There will be time for that later. For now, John breathes smoothly, even if his every breath is shorter.

The corset stops just below John’s chest, leaving it bare. The big bullet scar on John’s shoulder is surrounded by small thin scars that start at his chest and arch over his shoulders. Not for the first time, Sherlock thinks how deceiving it looks, how shattered John’s left side seems when Sherlock knows it’s nothing but discolorations. Knows it with his hands, and his lips, and his teeth. And his heart.

He traces a line with his finger from John’s scar to the point on his torso where skin meets black silk, eyes never leaving John’s in the mirror.

Only one detail left.

“Apply it,” Sherlock says.

John pauses and takes a deep sigh, dips the wooden stick into the ornamented silver pendant.

He holds up the pencil-like stick to his water line and closes the eye, drawing a swift line and blinks at the slight watering in his eye as the black powder burn at his pupil.

“The other one,” Sherlock commands.

And John leans back into the warm, solid body standing behind him as he repeats the action on his other eye.

He avoids Sherlock’s eyes in the mirror, avoids looking at himself, and hurries to put away the wood stick and the small silver box away, into their small box on the bottom of his wardrobe. He’s captivating, strong, healthy body in a casing Sherlock designed for him.

“Show me,” Sherlock asks and John holds up the necklace to him, turning his body so he’s kneeling in front of Sherlock.

Sherlock would lament the trousers if the sight wasn’t so gratifying.

The design of the small case is nothing Sherlock has ever seen, handmade pieces wielded together in a geometric design that must’ve taken the silversmith days to make. 

He knows John wasn’t always his, but the reminder is not something he expected to sting so hard. To weigh down on him like a threat.

He fists the pendant and puts it in his pocket, undecided about the trinket’s fate for now.

“Get up,” he tells John.

And the moment he stands Sherlock slaps across his left cheek.

John’s expression is stony; a mask of obedience, but Sherlock knows what real submission looks like on those features. With a slow smirk he slaps John again, harder, the sound of his hand hitting against John’s skin going straight to his cock, and then backhands him even harder.

The colour rising on John’s cheeks is satisfying, but not as much as that hungry, desperate look building behind John’s eyes.

His breathtaking soldier who only breaks in front of him.

John is hard beneath the expensive material, and Sherlock cups the wet bulge tightly, giving John a teasing pull before letting his hand travel up, over smooth satin and hot skin.

John’s breathing hard now, fighting himself not to let any noise escape, and Sherlock won’t have that. Won’t be denied what’s his.

The next slap is hard enough to break John’s lip.

The sight of deep red blood together with the broken moan John makes is too much and Sherlock takes John mouth in a bruising kiss, a hand cupping John’s heated face to tilt his head up. 

He bites and sucks on John’s lower lip, delighted in the small desperate noises John lets out. 

When he pulls back, John turns his head into Sherlock’s palm a lightly touches his lips to it.

“You’re mine,” Sherlock says. He’s not sure why he said it. 

But he doesn’t move his hand away and so John kisses his wrist again, lips parting just enough to let his tongue gently flick against the vein. He waits for a reaction but when Sherlock gives none he moves his lips up to the root of Sherlock’s palm, teeth grazing against the pale smooth skin as he plants butterfly kisses up Sherlock’s life line.

“I’m yours,” he whispers.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I'm not around much anymore, so I won't be replying to any comments, should you choose to leave one. But thank you so much for reading and I hope you enjoyed this!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Corsets and Dress Trousers](https://archiveofourown.org/works/739580) by [PrettyArbitrary](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrettyArbitrary/pseuds/PrettyArbitrary)




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